Y'a Pas D'Amour Sans Histoire
by saoulbete
Summary: She hated this toxic thing they had. It wasnt a relationship, anrd she tells herself its not love, but shes always loved the way they lied.


A/N – this is from the same twisted, fucked up part of my mind that created Compartmentalization…so don't expect fluffy. It's dark, and what happens when you spend a day with a playlist comprising of two songs – _Love the Way You Lie_ (both the Rhianna version and the Skylar Grey version) and Francis Cabrel's _C'est Ecrit._ You don't have to know either song to get this, but there's some nice intertexuality there if you know either/both.

* * *

She stood there, gasping for breath chest heaving, throat burning, wanting nothing more than to scream in frustration but unable to muster the energy for something so primal. She hated this, with every fibre of her being, but she couldn't stop herself. She knew what she was getting into when they started this _thing, _whatever it was that she had with Jane. This was like an addiction. No, not _like_ it _was._ Something that she kept coming back to, again and again, knowing what it did to her, and how harmful it was. Something that she hated, but could never say no to. Even as it tore her apart.

But she loved it, fed off of it. Fed off the hatred. After all, the hate seemed to make everything better. Somewhere, in some corner of her consciousness, she could hear the beginnings of a song that seemed entirely too mellow to be played at the decibel level it was coming from the guest house, and in a fit of pique and spite she grabbed the remote for her stereo off the counter behind her, and turned it on at an equally loud volume, the neighbors be damned. She was glad Angela was away for the weekend – even as much as she wanted to hate Jane at the moment, she knew full well that the detective was far too drunk to drive, and she knew neither of them wanted the smothering presence of the Rizzoli matron around right now.

She found some sort of bitter irony in the fact that her own radio was playing pop music and the tune coming from the guest house was something in French. But Jane had been enamoured of the song well before they had even met, and translating the lyrics had been one of her first acts of friendship. And she couldn't help but wonder when the song had come to represent her, become the anthem of this _thing _that they had, and the bitter addiction that they shared.

She turned, bracing herself on the cool marble of the counter, staring at the hole in her kitchen wall, just inches away from where her head had been for a long moment, wondering just how many knuckles had broken when two fingers had clipped a stud, before gathering the last of her energy to widen it, enjoying the sharp sting that shot through her hand as it punched through the plaster, sinking to the floor in a heap.

She rested her forehead on her knees, surveying the wreckage around her. Shards of dark brown glass, shards of fine crystal, and dust from the plaster around her, a few small droplets of blood, and she wondered idly who they belonged to. She suckled her own knuckle gently, enjoying the metallic taste that flitted over her tongue. Somewhere along the line, she had found that she enjoyed this fucked-up _thing_ that they had.

Jane insisted it wasn't a relationship. They weren't dating, they weren't _together._ This was just sometimes sex. They were just friends, there weren't any deeper feelings there. The love they shared was simply platonic, the same sort of love that was shared between friends, siblings. They weren't anything _more._ After all, Jane had Casey, had Dean, had any man she wanted. After all, Jane was _straight._ This was just when, sometimes, they wanted someone to just get off with, and there wasn't anyone else available.

And she'd been happy to fill that void. After all, while she wasn't exactly hard-up for male attention, with their busy schedules, it was difficult at best to have a normal dating life. But it was nights like this, when she was content to play along with the charade, when she returned to her own home at two in the morning, freshly fucked, to find Jane on her couch surrounded by a halfdozen empty longnecks that the emotions came out.

The overnight hour of SportsCenter had started its third loop, and Jane was muttering about the Sox playing better when watched in high def, before realizing where she had been. And she'd barely managed to pour herself a glass of wine before the sarcastic comments began. She knew what Jane had come over for, and it wasn't her television. It'd been a rough week – cases with kids as victims always were, but Jane had insisted on going home alone. So when she had gotten the call from Dennis, she decided that she most definitely wanted nothing less than to be alone tonight.

It wasn't long before the sarcasm gave way to pure acidity, acridity, and she had bit her tongue at first. She knew what she was getting into, when she had agreed to this. She knew, somewhere in her psyche that the comments being flung at her were simply years of self-loathing and repression being directed at someone else. Usually, _usually_, Jane was sweet, self-sacrificing, caring, _loving. _But nights like this, when emotion waged war with expectation, it left them like _this._ With her sitting on her kitchen floor, silent tears streaming down her face, surrounded by the broken shards of a beer bottle thrown in her general direction, and the disintegrated crystal of a wine glass thrown at Jane.

And the worst thing was as exhausted as their fighting left her, it made her feel so damned _alive._ She liked the hate. Because she refused to define it as anything else. She wouldn't let herself _love_ someone that refused to admit to what it was they had, she had no option but to _hate._ Hate was the only other emotion that could be so passionate, so all-consuming. She lifted her head, realizing that the song coming from the guest house had been blasting on repeat, listening to the lyrics, translating them easily, surprised at the dichotomy between their choices in music.

Both songs were about the same thing – a toxic relationship. This was what Jane had been searching for, and running from. _She_ had been what Jane had been searching for, and running from. Somehow, she had just inserted herself into Jane's life, somewhere along the way she'd drawn the shadows over Jane's eyes and completely turned everything upside down. She brought out repressed feelings and thoughts that Jane was downright terrified of. Somewhere, Jane had been convinced that there was no way that anyone could possibly love such a broken husk of a woman. Somewhere along the way, Jane had lied to herself so well that the lie of eventually some nice man would come along and sweep the detective away that the lie had become an expected reality. She didn't fault Jane for this – though the violence was a spectacular touch, there was a restraint there – a line she knew Jane would dare never cross. Violent words, but empty threats. The beer bottle that lay in pieces around her would have never made contact. The plaster dust in her hair would always be just that - a sign of a fist that had found its intended target with the wall. Physical manifestations of the war that Jane waged inside when she did things like come home after being with someone else.

But Jane had no right to be jealous, if, after all, there wasn't anything _more_ between them. Jane had no right to claim her as personal property, if the woman refused to admit that to the world around them. She wasn't going to let her own life get put on hold for a woman who couldn't just choke over misplaced pride and admit that they really did belong together. She wasn't just going to stand there, burning to just have what she wanted and unable to have it, while Jane figured shit out. She wasn't going to let her own needs, her own wants stand by the wayside while Jane tried to reconcile the person inside with the person Jane was expected to be.

But she would. She knew she would – and that nights like this, where she came home freshly fucked by someone else, were just nights. There was never going to be anything more with any of the men she saw. There was never going to be a relationship, never going to be a husband, never going to have any sort of anything. Perhaps it was masochistic of her, to put herself through this time and again, but she _enjoyed_ it. And when it was good – it was very good. That as many times as they shouted at each other to go to hell, to go fuck themselves, she'd keep coming back.

She sighed, as she slowly pushed herself back to standing, unsure of just how much time had passed in the interminable period from when Jane had had stormed out until now. But she knew what she had to do. Doing her best to straighten herself out, flatten down her hair, and sweep the plaster dust out of it, looking at the guest house. She could see Jane's sillouhette through the window, curled on the couch in a fetal position. Doing her best to look apologetic, she crossed the short space between them, knocking gently on the door.

As much as she hated this toxic, fucked up _thing_ they had, she still wanted – _needed _– Jane in her life. Even as something strictly platonic. She needed a hero, someone that she could rely on, a rock, a buoy, a whatever it was that they'd had before their relationship had turned into _this._ She wasn't going to sacrifice the only meaningful connection she'd ever had with someone over her own pride. There was no answer at the door, and she let herself in. "Jane – I wanted to –" She paused, feeling her breath catch, her skin grow itchy. "I'm sorry." She settled on, because she was. She was sorry that they couldn't have what they wanted. She was sorry that they had to resort to this toxic fucked up _thing_ to get anywhere close to it.

She was going to come here, apologize, and pretend it was for what Jane wanted her to apologize for. She was going to let Jane win this one, even though she knew she was right, because she needed something, even if it wasn't enough. She was going to beg forgiveness for something that she didn't regret, just to hang on to the one thing that kept her going. And she knew that she'd be granted forgiveness. She tried to lay a comforting hand on a shoulder, only to have it shrugged off, and she stood there for a long moment behind the couch. "Come, let's sleep." She said, intending for them to do just that. Jane looked as drained as she was, and she opened the door again, watching as Jane followed back to the master bedroom, collapsing into the bed, still clothed.

She does nothing but remove the boots, before stripping down herself into her pajamas, sliding into bed, wrapping her arms around Jane. This time, Jane did nothing to shake away the touch, relaxing back into her. "I'm sorry too." A gravelly voice said, after a long silence. "I promise I won't let it get to me – that this won't happen again." She smiles against a neck, pulling the limp form closer to her, waiting for breathing to even before she mutters three words that she won't ever say to a conscious Jane. Because somewhere, she doesn't mean them, and she does, but she doesn't. It's as confusing, as toxic as destructive as what they were. But she's always loved the way they lied.


End file.
